When I was little, we found a man. He looked like... like, butchered. The old woman in the village crossed themselves... and whispered crazy things - strange things. "El Diablo que hace trofeos de los hombres." Only in the hottest years this happens - and this year, it grows hot. We begin finding our men. We found them sometimes without their skins... and sometimes much, much worse. ..."El Diablo que hace trofeos de los hombres" means "the demon who makes trophies of men". Bleed, bastard. You saying that Blain and Hawkins were killed by a fucking lizard? That's a bullshit psyche job. There is 2 to 3 men out there at the most. Fucking lizard. I woke up. Why don't you? You're an asset, an expendable asset and I used you to get the job done. Got it? Goddamn jackpot. This is more than we ever thought we'd get. We finally got those bastards. We got 'em! Anytime... Bunch of slack-jawed faggots around here. This stuff will make you a god damned sexual Tyrannosaurus, just like me. We make a stand now, or there will be nobody left to go to the chopper. There's something out there waiting for us... and it ain't no man. We're all gonna die. Come on... Come on! Do it! Do it! Come on! Kill me! I'm here! Come on! Do it now! Kill me!